Entropy Balance
by journalxxx
Summary: It takes the patience of a saint to put up with a former demon, and Wilson is only human.
1. Chapter 1

"All right, I'm gonna have to ask you to stop doing that."

Maxwell blinked, suddenly yanked out of his reverie. Wilson was side-eyeing him with that inane hostility that was usually spurred by Maxwell doing something he didn't trust. Except, this time Maxwell was sure he was doing absolutely nothing other than lying on his straw roll and waiting for sleep to catch up with him. He spread his arms in dismay.

"What?"

"Staring at me. It's annoying." Wilson turned away and resumed drying his hair, vigorously rubbing a rough cloth on his head. "As if there weren't already enough eyes in the darkness always watching."

"I-" Maxwell stopped. He hadn't- he'd been staring, hadn't he? He bit back a string of imaginative curses, but the silence got Wilson's attention anyway. He peeked at Maxwell again, squinting to an almost comical degree.

"You're still doing it."

"I'm looking at the fire!" He huffed, gesturing wildly. "The only thing worth looking at, since it's the only source of light. You're standing right beside the fire, I can't not see you. Do you think your feeble sanity can withstand such an atrocious ordeal or do I have to gouge my eyes out for you to feel more comfortable?"

"You aren't looking at the fire, you're looking at me. What is it, the scars?" Wilson turned and spread his arms, fully showing his torso. "Fascinating, aren't they? I wonder whose fault it is that I have so many. Look, if you connect these five you get the Libra-"

"Oh knock it off, for heaven's sake." Maxwell turned over with a grunt, granting Wilson his precious privacy and forcibly removing the distracting sight from his field of view.

"You know, I would love to think you were contemplating and maybe regretting the lasting consequences of your trickery on my health and life, but I fear it would be optimistic to the point of idiocy."

Maxwell gritted his teeth, glaring at the complete darkness and shutting his eyes forcefully, as if to scrape the very memory of the image from his retinae.

"Goodnight, Higgsbury."

* * *

It was a sad truth of life, that no man was ever aware of how valuable a thing was until it was lost. It took Maxwell mere days of his newly-found freedom to remember exactly how overrated and taxing complete humanity was, with all its annoying mental and physical needs.

The King of the Constant didn't need to eat or sleep, being sustained and maintained purely by dark forces flowing in the throne. It came at the hefty price of self-determination, freedom of movement, loss of a wide spectrum of emotions and unending, excruciating boredom, but it did have its perks compared to the vexing condition of the average survivor. Rediscovering hunger pains had been a mostly unpleasant experience, although life in the camp was organized enough to never let them get too hindering. Pain, in general, was something Maxwell tried to avoid like the plague, including the annoying soreness of tired muscles that came after a long day of gathering and scavenging. Luckily enough, Wilson and his own puppets were often more than capable of dealing with those tasks themselves, while Maxwell pretended to keep himself busy with lighter work around the base. One issue he truly wasn't expecting, however, was how deeply distracting close-quarter coexistence with Wilson could turn out to be, especially when it came to mundane chores like bathing and grooming.

It was nothing new, in truth. Maxwell had spent months observing Wilson's antics from the throne, delighted and thoroughly entertained by his struggles and misadventures. He had seen him countless times in different states of undressing, and his mind hadn't dwelled on the fact even for a second. The King's thoughts and actions, after all, were nothing but an extension of the Shadows' will, whose interests reigned supreme and discreetly steered the hands and eyes of Their most valuable puppet in the desired direction. They harbored no interest for beauty or harmony, it would be against their very nature. But Maxwell... well, he fancied himself a man of taste. Where elegance could be found, in all its possible manifestations, whether in the smart cut of a tailored suit, or in the cunning strategy of a game of chess, or in the red bloom adorning a lady's hair, or in the solid outline of a determined jaw, he would always take a moment to savour it.

Wilson P. Higgsbury had no such qualities. The perpetual state of disarray of his hair and clothing was a testament to his lack of style, his self-proclaimed and questionable "science" was more of a pig-headed trial-and-error approach to any given problem rather than a rigorous method, his inexplicable naivety would net him a row of losses in both chess and poker. It wasn't by accident that Maxwell had observed him more carefully than any other survivor, oh no. It was just too amusing to see in how many different ways this ridiculous little man could fail.

And yet, ultimately, this ridiculous little man did not fail. He died, oh he did, over and over again. Starved, frozen to death, mauled by the beasts, stomped by tree guardians, driven insane by his own nightmares, swallowed by the darkness, deadly injured by traps. Yet, he always came back, with a touch stone found by sheer luck, or a meticulously crafted amulet, or a creepy statue of flesh. No matter what Maxwell threw at him, this ridiculous little man kept moving forward, through sheer, blundering, inelegant stubborness, until he was facing his very captor in the throne room. And even after that, even after being seized by the dark powers as their new King, it had taken no more than a month for him to regain his freedom to do what he knew best: stumbling forward, with no clear plan or reason.

It boggled the mind, and having been bested by such an individual did hurt the former King's pride to some extent, there was no point in denying that. But Maxwell wasn't so petty as to dismiss as completely insignificant what had proved to be a decisive trait of Wilson's character, a trait that had left its marks on his body as well. And once Maxwell's mind had been freed from the numbing grasp of the Shadows, he had found that his eyes naturally tended to...linger.

Wilson wasn't an imposing man by any means, almost as thin as Maxwell and much shorter too. But months of hardships had shaped him into a curious specimen of a man, with its own rough but undeniable elegance. He was still very slim, his diet too austere to allow for any real muscle growth, but he was a far cry from the scrawny recluse Maxwell had dragged through the portal. The outline of his muscles under his skin was perfectly visible with each and every movement, every time he bent this or that way or lifted unsuspected weights with little effort. The very shape of his shoulders, the faint furrow along his spine, the small dip of his lower back could drive lesser men to tears, and Maxwell was sure that despite the many small nicks and scars, his skin would feel almost perfectly smooth to the-

"What on earth is your problem?"

Maxwell winced. Damn it, damn Wilson and himself and the damned Shadows that put them together.

"If my presence bothers you so much, why don't you bathe in the eastern pond during the day instead of here at night?"

"Because I'd rather not being attacked by frogs, eels, tentacles and whatever horrors you placed in this God-forsaken land, for example. A stupid white carrot followed and screamed at me for an hour while I went there to fill the buckets this afternoon."

"How unfortunate. A screaming white carrot, you said?"

"Yes, what the hell was it? I've never seen anything like that before. I had to shove it back into the ground to make it stop."

"And where, exactly?"

"Near the second... you're trying to distract me." Wilson glared at Maxwell, slapping the piece of cloth in the bucket with a small splash. "Look, I'm not an idiot-"

"Debatable, but go on."

"Maxwell." Wilson turned to face him fully, his expression suddenly very serious and his tone lower. "Do you really think I haven't noticed?"

Ah, he had finally mustered the gall for a direct approach. This could likely take a very bad turn, but the temptation to meet Wilson's challenge head-on was too strong, consequences be damned. Maxwell closed the Codex, which he had been reading- been trying to read since the scientist had started his usual ablutions. He stood up and went to sit near the fire, on the same log as Wilson, so close that their arms almost touched. He took a long, slow drag on his cigar, savouring it, letting the smoky shadow permeate his lungs, and he looked, blatantly and leisurely.

He looked at the untamable tangle of hair crowning Wilson's head, sticking every which way in a half-dried mess. He considered the sharp angle of his jaw, adorned with that rough stubble just at the right length to suit Maxwell's taste, seeing as he looked like a ridiculous prepubescent altar boy when clean-shaven, and like a veritable caveman when the beard grew bushier. He observed his chest, pleasantly proportionate and without an ounce of fat, peppered with roughly-healed scars that interrupted the even distribution of hair, just as abundant as on his face. His gaze dropped languidly lower, following its soft, dark trail until it disappeared under the hem of Wilson's trousers. Then he finally looked up, straight in the scientist's disconcerted eyes, and exhaled fully, lazily, coils of shadows lapping at Wilson's face.

"Noticed what, if I may ask?"

Wilson's reaction was priceless. He jumped on his feet as if he had been bitten by a snake, eyes fixed on Maxwell as his hand fumbled around blindly for his shirt. He hastily put it on, his face red and scrunched in upset.

"Is there a single shred of morality in you that isn't irredeemably twisted?"

"I'm afraid not." Old habits died hard, and poking at Wilson's flimsy mental balance was just as entertaining as ever, no matter the circumstances. Maxwell smiled amicably, supporting his chin on his fist. "I take that the notion distresses you."

"You- you...!" Wilson's fists were clenched against his sides, his face a mask of sheer rage. He was a temperamental man, after all. As soon as he had learnt of Maxwell's betrayal, he had immediately flung himself at his shadow projection, uselessly trying tackle him to the ground. He had tried to attack him in the throne room, too, nearly getting himself incinerated along with his weapon by the protective spells. There had been nothing to protect Maxwell from his next outburst, when they had casually met in the Constant later on, and he could still remember the remarkable bruise Wilson's knuckles had left on his cheekbone for the following days. He wasn't looking forward to another scuffle, but he'd be damned before he let himself get intimidated by Wilson.

"Cat got your tongue?" He kept smiling, unperturbed. "I hadn't figured you for such a prude, you know."

"You- It's not- This is enough!" Wilson burst out, abruptly pacing in front of the fire, arms flailing about like a lunatic. "This is enough! There is only so much I can tolerate, and I'm already well past my limit."

He fetched his backpack, emptied it, and started shoving random materials in it. Flint, logs, stones, a handful of carrots, some charcoal. He then threw it at Maxwell, who barely dodged the sharp stick that flew toward his forehead afterwards.

"Here are some supplies and a torch. Take them and get out of my sight. You aren't welcome in this camp anymore."

Maxwell blinked, then looked at the backpack. He blinked again, then looked again at Wilson. He seemed positively murderous, his words were as stern as they could be, and this was a very tense and delicate moment, but Maxwell just couldn't do it. He tried to remain serious and answer with equal poignancy, maybe even putting up some pretense of rightful disdain, but he just couldn't. He snorted and covered his face, but he couldn't hold back the roaring laughter that erupted from his belly and shook his whole body.

"Really, pal? You're willing to cooperate and gloss over the fact that I trapped you here, unleashed hellish horrors upon you countless times, and ultimately confined you to the clutches of the throne in exchange for my own freedom, but this is the dealbreaker? The worst and most unforgivable sin, peeping at a man having a bath one foot away from me?" He snorted again and wiped a small tear from his eye, genuinely out of breath from the laughter. "How very anticlimactic."

"It's not about this, trust me. This is just the last straw in the largest hay pile of history!" Wilson went on, glaring daggers at him. "You have no notion of decency or respect! I welcome you in my camp, I share my supplies, I deal with the heaviest tasks, I bear with your complete lack of remorse and your unsufferable jabs, and you don't even care! You keep acting as if you're doing me a favor by staying here! I genuinely can't tell if you actually think you'd have no trouble surviving on your own, or if you just enjoy torturing me in any conceivable way. Well, I am done with this. I am done with you. If you can't even bother to respect my privacy and insist on treating me like a- a plaything to satisfy your every sick whim, then I can't be bothered to care about your wellbeing. Grab your things and leave, Maxwell."

That was genuinely impressive, he had to admit it. It wasn't like Maxwell had expected their shaky, reluctant alliance to last more than few months in the first place, but he hadn't foreseen such a peculiar conclusion.

"I've gotta hand it to you, pal, you really-"

"Shut up." Wilson cut him off abruptly. His eyes had grown tired, but steely. "I said enough. Get lost and don't show your face around here again."

"...Very well."

Apparently playtime was over. Maxwell dispelled the shadow cigar, stood up, shook off some dust from his suit and grabbed Wilson's generous handout. He graced his former partner with a single glance, waiving mockingly at him.

"So long, Higgsbury."

He lit his torch and ventured into the darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Maxwell woke at dawn, having unfortunately fallen asleep facing exactly the direction of the rising sun. He wondered for a moment about the empty view of the wilderness, with the noticeable absence of the chests, assorted structures, organized bushes and scattered tools that adorned the camp, before remembering he did not have a camp anymore. He groaned, annoyed at the perspective of the whole lot of work his new situation would involve, and turned on his side to catch a few more minutes of sleep. He found himself looking at Wilson, idly sitting near the embers of his dying fire.

They blinked at each other for a moment.

"Say pal, I think you may have gotten lost. Your camp is further up north."

Wilson sighed. He looked like he hadn't slept much, if at all. He tiredly rummaged in his backpack and pulled out a small envelope, putting it down near Maxwell's head.

"I brought some breakfast."

Maxwell sat up, but he didn't take the envelope. It wasn't very surprising that Wilson had found him, seeing as Maxwell hadn't felt like covering much ground in the darkness and he had set a small campfire relatively close to Wilson's base, but his presence was puzzling in itself. He eyed the other man quizzically.

"The decision I made last night was... a bit rushed. I shouldn't have kicked you out like that, out of the blue. In the middle of the night, of all times. Especially since we haven't secured any touchstones or amulets since-"

"I can't believe it. You actually came here to _apologize_." Maxwell groaned in dismay, covering his face with his hands. "And here I thought you had finally grown a pair."

"Would you mind not being an absolute tool for one minute and letting me talk?"

"Yes, I would. This is pitiful. You're pitiful. Can't you even hold a grudge for a whole night before giving in to whatever misguided sense of guilt led you here to bribe me back to the camp? With..." He picked up the envelope and peered into it. "Honey nuggets, apparently. How charming."

"Shut up. I'm not here to apologize. I've had every reason to want to get rid of you since we met, and I still do." Wilson glared at him, wringing his hands in irritation. "But not like that. In my defense, I can say that I've been a bit stressed lately, and... maybe I wasn't exactly in my right mind yesterday."

"Are you ever?"

"Maxwell, shut up."

Maxwell condescendingly bit a nugget.

"It's- it's just that... ugh!" Wilson suddenly threw his hands to the sky and ruffled his own hair in frustration. "It makes literally no sense for us to even discuss this! Surviving together is the best option, it's undeniable! As a pair, we consume less resources, we forage more efficiently, we can defend ourselves better against any attacks, we rest more and more safely. Parting ways would give us no advantage whatsoever. Yet, _somehow_ you make it seem like the most preferable option."

He stopped, waiting for Maxwell's reply, but he kept casually nibbling at his meal. After a moment, Wilson continued.

"So. Since it is clearly the most rational choice, I'm here to tell you to come back to the camp. Does this qualify as apologizing? No, because as far as I'm concerned, you'd deserve to be slain by your own hounds a hundred times over for everything you've put me through since you first spoke to me. Does that mean you can waltz back in your tent and keep treating me like a doormat all day? Also no, because I'm tired of you pretending that my help is irrelevant. You can't possibly be that stupid, and you have no regard for other people's life. If you were convinced you could easily survive on your own, you'd have left a long time ago. Probably after killing me and stealing my stuff."

"My, someone's cranky today." Maxwell had finished his breakfast and had summoned his usual shadow cigar. Wilson eyed it with mild disgust, probably remembering the previous night, and Maxwell at least had the decency to blow the smoke well away from his face. He scratched his chin and considered Wilson's word for a minute. "...You do have a point about the benefits of working together. I guess I may have not been on my best behavior lately, but that can be easily remedied. Any more ground rules I should be aware of, _sir_?"

"Yes. No more..." Wilson gestured awkwardly between them, pointing at his eyes, then at Maxwell's, then at his own again. It took Maxwell some considerable guesswork to understand that he was referring to the 'inappropriate' glances. "...That. No more of that. How could you even- do you have no shame at all?"

"Oh, please. I still find ridiculous that this is what got you so worked up, on top of everything."

"Really? I find ridiculous that you could be so casual about it. I'm sure most people would have had a much less diplomatic reaction than mine to such an appalling behavior."

"Yes, yes, the civilized world is fairly opinionated about such trivial matters, is it not? Good thing we're farther than humanly conceivable from civilization." Maxwell flashed a grin to the other man, who only hunched his back a little more and looked at the charred cinders even more dejectedly. Maxwell couldn't help but grow a bit more somber too. "...Does it really bother you that much?"

"I- It's not..." Wilson shook his head. "Not really. Not as a matter of principle, at least. It's not really any of my business. It _does_ bother me, however, if it means I'm constantly scrutinized like some- some tasty morsel, for heaven's sake!"

It took all the restraint Maxwell could muster not to make a joke about that vivid choice of words. Meanwhile, Wilson's arms were again flailing about madly, as it was his habit when he grew invested in an argument.

"Which I'm actually used to! Every single creature in this hellish place is always looking at me like it wants to devour me! Or slaughter me for fun. Except Chester. So I could deal with that, but no! Turns out you're even more depraved than the worst nightmarish-"

"All right, all right, I get it, no more peeping!" Maxwell stopped Wilson's rant when he nearly got poked in the eye by a flying finger. He took one last drag from the cigar before letting it vanish in the faint breeze. "This wretched world offers so few pleasures and respites from the grating task of existence that I didn't even think it would be a problem if I let myself enjoy such a trifling one. But if this offends your pristine sense of decorum so deeply, I'll pass on it. Are you satisfied?"

Wilson looked at Maxwell at length, apparently considering his words very seriously. Then he spoke slowly, as if unravelling a fundamental truth born from the deepest reaches of his mind.

"You have the uncanny ability to sound always, unrepentantly offensive, no matter what you are actually saying."

"I try my best."

"Is that why your nose looks like it's been smashed a dozen times?"

"Really? You are insulting my features now?" Maxwell scoffed, genuinely disappointed. "Are you willing to stoop that low?"

"You said it. There are only so many ways one can entertain himself here."

The sunrays had grown fierce, and it seemed it was going to be another torrid summer day. Wilson stood up and stretched with a pained groan. Maxwell wondered how long he'd been sitting at his campfire before he woke up.

"Let's go. There's a lot of work to do."


	3. Chapter 3

Despite Wilson's poor expectations, there was a noticeable change in Maxwell's behavior. It was less of an actual improvement and more of an ongoing state of haughty sulking, but the complete disappearance of his usual jabs and unhelpful sarcasm on just about anything was honestly a breath of fresh air. Even though they often spent most of their days separately, with Wilson foraging and exploring and Maxwell crafting and cooking in the base, his malicious comments at the end of a hard day's work were more grating than Wilson cared to admit. Since their argument, however, communication between them had turned into a mere exchange of only the strictly necessary information applying the minimum amount of words possible, and Wilson didn't have a single problem with that. A true loner at heart, he'd much rather bask in a quiet atmosphere of mild hostility than constantly having to deflect open and pointless mockery.

Maxwell had been surprisingly compliant about Wilson's request for privacy too. He had taken to retire in his tent as soon as Wilson fetched the buckets, or he busied himself with some other activity behind a conveniently placed chest or machine that hid them from each other's view. A small part of Wilson's mind kept reminding him that not seeing Maxwell didn't necessarily imply not _being seen_ by Maxwell, but he'd just have to live with that.

In truth, the most shocking aspect of the recent revelation about Maxwell's inclinations had been the man's sheer nerve. Wilson may not harbor any particular disgust or bias towards the likes of Maxwell, but the memory of his obscene display of interest and his blatant disregard of basic social decency still sparked a burning rage in his gut. There was only so much that decades of isolation could excuse, and Wilson was fairly sure that this wasn't one of them.

Still, Maxwell's behavior had remained irreproachable since then, if noticeably distant. Since Wilson had been freed from the throne, the Constant had been remarkably peaceful as well. He had met Maxwell in a world of perennial summer with few hostile creatures and relatively rich lands, an unexpected and welcome change from the horrifying regions he had had to cross to reach the King. Days passed with uncharacteristic ease and an almost reassuring sense of routine, allowing them to gather their energies and resources as they looked for the next portal.

Then, one day, the hounds reappeared.

Wilson's pickaxe froze in midair as he was about to strike a promising gold vein, and the familiar weight of dread sank in his chest. He had hoped. Foolish as it may be, he had genuinely hoped the peace would last. The mysterious woman who had freed him from the throne was... well, she had seemed at least conflicted about her actions. She had seemed friendly, even cheerful at first... until she had electrocuted him for literally no reason, and that was definitely not reassuring, but Wilson had hoped it was just some blind (and probably deserved) vengeance towards whoever sat on the throne. He had truly hoped she could turn out a more merciful ruler than Maxwell, but a new hound incursion wasn't exactly a benevolent sign.

The growls of the foul beasts echoed all around, still distant but unmistakable. He quickly gathered the scattered materials and hurried back towards the base, heart pounding with the increasing volume of the howls. By the time he got to the camp, Maxwell had already donned his armor and sword, and he was placing a bunch of tooth traps outside the wooden fence, flanked by two shadow duelists. He pointed a safe path to Wilson when he saw him.

"Go that way. There's new armor and weapons in the bigger chest."

Wilson nodded and run past him. In a couple of minutes they were both ready, fully armed, standing in the middle of the camp near the lit firepit. Wilson hated fighting in the base, as usually most of their equipment was damaged by the scuffle, but the sky was already red, and night would likely fall before they managed to defeat the pack.

The wait was tense, as always. The guttural roars grew and grew, surrounding them from every direction, causing Wilson to turn over and over again, always expecting the first hound to appear right behind his back. Trenches and palisades were of little use; the beasts always seemed to spawn from darkness itself, regardless of terrain or physical barriers. He almost jumped when a hand grabbed his shoulder, in a way that felt all but reassuring.

"Steady, Higgsbury. You've survived them plenty of times before."

"Yes, when you were the one sending them after-"

"Save that for later."

The first trap snapped loudly, followed by a pained howl. Then the horde came. In few seconds the camp was a flurry of movement and noise, where black, fanged creatures rushed in one after another. Wilson fought almost without thinking, striking and dodging with learnt timing and experience, luring two or three hounds in a favorable spot before attacking them one by one. He caught a glimpse of the duelists holding their ground with equal skill, while Maxwell remained at the edge of the camp, somehow managing not to engage in direct fight, but readily finishing the wounded hounds that were trying to escape.

It was a strange, long attack, Wilson noticed. The corpses of the hounds kept piling up on the ground, and Wilson couldn't help but think that if they had all attacked together in a single swarm, they could have easily overpowered both Maxwell and him. Instead, the beasts kept trickling in the camp slowly, as if someone was releasing them gradually.

It was completely dark by the time the last wounded beast tried to run from Wilson's lance. He didn't even need to chase it as it limped slowly towards the darkness, until it fell heavily on the ground just at the edge of the circle of light granted by the firepit, wheezing loudly and pitifully. Maxwell approached it too, and they both stood before the agonizing beast for a moment. Under the dim light and the two men's wavering shadows, it almost looked like a normal boar, one of the many Wilson had seen his father hunt in his youth. He had never been quite fond of the sport.

Maxwell knelt down, his free hand reaching out towards the animal. As soon as he did, the hound reared its ugly head with a roar and snapped at him, still trying to bite and shred and maul and kill even as it was bleeding to death.

"How quickly they forget..."

Maxwell sounded almost wistful, a somewhat unfitting note in his voice. It made some sort of perverted sense that the one thing capable of inspiring sympathy in him would be a creature just as ferocious and devious as its creator.

"Do you think they could be domesticated?"

"No." He stood up as one of the duelists moved forward. Its blade rose in the air and swiftly fell down with a sharp hiss. The whimpering immediately stopped. "I made sure of that."

Wilson thought of himself as of a merciful man, but he did not feel pity for the creature's destiny. The hounds were no normal animals, they had no sense of self-preservation whatsoever. They either died or kept attacking, over and over again, retreating into the shadows only to reappear from a different spot few seconds later, ready to strike anew. They were self-destructing weapons through and through, and he had had to learn to treat them as such.

"I think we can wait until tomorrow to collect their meat. We're going to be up all night if we start now."

"Indeed. The camp also needs to be-" Maxwell stopped and looked around. "What is that?"

A faint melody echoed in the air, seemingly from all directions. It was a simple, sweet tune, produced by pins or bells tingling in harmony. It reminded Wilson of a small music box he once gifted to one of his nieces.

"The fire!" Maxwell suddenly shouted, pointing at the camp. Clearly visible despite the distance, a slithering claw of shadows was snaking towards the pit, black as ink and disturbingly real. They sprang towards it, but it was too late. Its fingers wrapped around the embers and squashed them in a puff of smoke, the whole area sinking in complete darkness. Almost immediately, Wilson tripped on something invisible, falling sideways and knocking down Maxwell in the process.

"Goddammit! Do you have a torch?"

"Yes, give me a-"

A far too familiar sound rumbled around them. The Grue attacked even more quickly than usual, and Wilson could hear the telltale swoosh of Maxwell's puppets vanishing into nothingness. He cursed, rummaging desperately under his armor. He got the torch, but he couldn't find the flint to ignite it. He sensed Maxwell raising to his feet beside him.

"Where are you going?" He hissed.

"The torch! Hurry!" It was the only reply he got. Wilson's hand finally stumbled into a piece of flint, but he couldn't do much with just one. He kept searching as his heart drummed frantically in his chest, counting the seconds before the next attack, the one that would likely cost them their lives.

"Cheap trick!" He heard Maxwell declare, for no discernible reason at all. If trying to communicate with the Grue was foolish, provoking it was positively suicidal. "Way beneath you, if I may speak freely."

The darkness hummed and whispered threateningly as Wilson found the second flint. He muttered to himself feverishly as he stroke them together, blindly trying to direct the sparks to the tip of the torch.

"Charlie...?" He almost didn't hear it. Maxwell's voice was completely different, his challenging bravado vanished in less than a second and replaced by some sort of stunned awe. Right then, the torch finally lit.

Wilson had never seen the Grue. On multiple occasions, he had managed to light torches or firepits in the very nick on time, when he was almost sure the creature was literally within arm's reach and ready to strike. Yet, no matter how close he perceived it, when light appeared, it was gone without a trace. He had never caught even a glimpse of a limb, or the trace of a swift movement in the corner of his eye. It seemed to instantly stop existing as soon as it could be seen.

This time, Wilson saw something. For a split second, the light revealed a thin, tall, dark silhouette, all sharp angles and pointy appendages. It had no features, no details, no depth. It looked like the drawing of a child on a piece of paper, some sort of bidimensional, disturbing scarecrow made entirely of black ink. In his enormous claw, it held Maxwell's chin, a look of sheer bewilderment etched on the man's features. Then Wilson blinked, and it was gone. He heard a sharp slash, and Maxwell let out a short scream, bringing a hand to his face.

"Maxwell!" Wilson scrambled to his feet and approached him. There was blood trickling down his face, tainting the collar of his immaculate shirt with red stains. "Are you all right?"

"Yes." Maxwell glanced around nervously. WIlson tried to get a good look at the wound, but Maxwell waved him away, still keeping his hand pressed against it. He seemed more preoccupied with staring at random points in the darkness, looking more disturbed than Wilson had ever seen him.

"Did it attack you _after_ I got the light out? Can it do that?"

"Oh, that wasn't an attack." Maxwell finally removed his hand, and Wilson could see three long gashes, unnaturaly vertical and parallel, running straight from his temple to his jaw. His eye was undamaged, fortunately. Maxwell stared thoughtfully at his own hand, shrouded by shadows and turned into a claw that was not too dissimilar from the Grue's. The blood glinted eerily on the blackened palm. "She was just saying hello."

It took Wilson a moment to process that.

"...She?"

Maxwell surveyed the area one last time. All was still and silent.

"We should sleep. There won't be any more surprises for tonight."

Wilson couldn't get another word out of him that night.


	4. Chapter 4

"I shouldn't be doing this." Maxwell muttered, dragging his feet behind Wilson and glaring at each and every surrounding tree as if it had personally offended him. "I'm wounded."

"Don't be dramatic. You barely needed any stitches."

"Which, by the way, were the most painful experience I've had since I got here. I thought you were supposed to be a doctor."

"I am, but I stopped practicing pretty soon after I finished my studies. I was more interested in pursuing my own research." Wilson spotted a group of tall, sturdy-looking pines that would likely yield perfect boards. He walked up to them, gesturing to Maxwell to follow him. "Although I've had plenty of experience with self-medication in the last two years. Did you choose to kidnap me because you knew I had the necessary skills to survive?"

"Don't flatter yourself too much. I chose you because you were gullible enough to believe me. End of the story."

"Of course you did." Wilson examined the trees carefully, checking the bark for holes, fungi or insects. Several chests and machines had been damaged during the hound incursion of the previous night, and Wilson wasn't going to sleep soundly until all of his equipment was back in top shape. "I think five or six of these should give us enough materials for the repairs. Three trees each, all right?"

"You're going to finish much earlier than me. In fact, you probably don't need me at all here."

"I helped you clean and store the meat-"

"Which I didn't ask-"

"-because it was already half spoilt and you would have taken too long on your own, so it's only fair that you help me with the wood. And you said you weren't going to summon any puppets today, so..."

"I'm running short on fuel and I'd rather save it for emergencies until I can find some more."

"Really? And here I thought that your sense of humor was the only inexhaustible source of nightmare fuel in the whole Constant."

"Speaking of which, please leave the scathing jabs to me. That was appalling."

They started hacking away. Despite Wilson's initial despondency towards the ungodly amount of manual labor required to survive in the Constant, he had slowly grown to like the calm and repetitiveness of most manual tasks. When he wasn't too hard-pressed by severe lack of food or basic resources, he had found that foraging from an ordered field of berry bushes, turning a twisted, dying tree into a neat pile of perfectly serviceable logs, or sewing together a simple but efficient trap could often soothe his nerves better than a few roasted mushroom. It certainly beated ripping legs off spiders or fending off herds of horny beefalos.

On the other hand, Maxwell seemed to nurture a strong distaste for any activity that required him to leave the camp. Wilson couldn't really blame him for that: it was obvious that his age and his relatively frail constitution didn't play to his advantage, even though Maxwell wasn't likely to ever admit it. In truth, Wilson didn't mind their current division of labor: Maxwell had proved to be a surprisingly apt artisan, especially in regards to small objects like traps or compasses. Wilson had found himself staring at the other man crafting this or that piece equipment more than once, admiring how nimble and precise his fingers were, very suited to precision work. He was a better cook than Wilson too, although that wasn't saying much: the scientist approached most of his culinary endeavors like his science, via methodic trials and errors spurred mostly by pure curiosity that often resulted in barely palatable wet goops.

It turned out it took Maxwell exactly twice as much time as Wilson to fell a tree, his first victim hitting the ground just as Wilson started peeling the branches from his second. He could tell by the exaggerated movements Maxwell was making to swing the axe that he was going to get a mean backache by the end of the task. He innerly debated on whether he should offer his advice on the matter. The debate ended fairly quickly and unanimously.

"I was wondering." Wilson addressed Maxwell casually as he was binding some sticks together in a fagot. "What happened exactly with the Grue last night?"

Maxwell stopped, glaring at the scientist and resting his weight on the axe for a moment as he caught his breath. Wilson pressed on.

"It didn't attack you, even though it took me a while to get the torch. Had I been alone, I'd have been slaughtered in all that time. Not to mention that you addressed it as a 'she' and-"

"Oh excuse me, if I had known we got here to picnic and chat, I'd have brought a few sandwiches. Who knows what gave me the idea that we had work to do."

Wilson groaned. "Come on, Maxwell. There's no need for you to hide anything, we're on the same boat. If anything, I should be the one worrying about whether or not I can trust you. And you aren't exactly making me less paranoid by skirting around the subject."

"I don't see how that's my problem." Maxwell straightened up and lifted his axe again. "Do you want to get this wood before dusk or what?"

Wilson sighed and decided to abandon the subject for the time being. They raised their axes and hit a new tree at the same time, the sharp snaps of metal on wood echoing around with perfect synchrony. Then they froze, as a thunderous roar resounded far too close for comfort. Horrified, they both looked towards the source of the noise. Above the greenery, they could spot one specific treetop wobbling slightly, while slow, rhythmic thumps made the ground shake beneath their feet.

"...Oh no." Wilson looked at Maxwell, who was standing stock still and slack-jawed with his axe still raised.

"Are you kidding me?" He burst out, gesticulating towards the humongous creature, the very personification of affronted bewilderment. "I leave the camp for one day and this happens? What in the everloving hell is this wrong with this goddamn-"

"Do you have any pinecones?" Wilson stopped listening after the third swear, deeming Maxwell's questions mostly rhetorical. He frantically surveyed the area trying to spot the precious items, but he couldn't see any.

"No! I've barely done anything-"

Another bellow boomed in the air, slightly louder than the previous one. The treetop was getting dangerously close, so they did the only sensible thing they could do: they started running. They got outside the forest fairly quickly. From the clearing between the woods and the camp, they could see the Treeguard slowly making its way among the foliage, somehow leaving no damaged plants in its wake.

"Thank God they're so slow."

"You're welcome. You know, I think it's angry with you, specifically." Maxwell declared, suddenly calmer.

"You can't possibly know that."

"I certainly can, I made them."

They exchanged a glance, and bolted in opposite directions. Once they had put some distance between them, they stopped and checked on their sluggish foe. After a moment, the guardian veered clearly towards Wilson's position.

"Oh, come on!" Wilson's disappointed exclamation was met by a triumphant "Ha!" coming from the opposite side of the clearing. He glared at Maxwell, who immediately dashed towards the base. Unhelpful bastard. Wilson did the same, but Maxwell yelled at him.

"Wait! Don't lead it here, you idiot! It'll destroy everything!"

"I have no pinecones! I need the ones in the chest!"

"I'll have a puppet bring them to you. I don't want to be anywhere near that thing."

"What do I do in the meantime?"

"I don't know! Outrun it! It isn't exactly fast."

Wilson almost slapped his own face out of sheer frustration. Great, just great. Just the kind of afternoon he needed to recover from the stress of the attack, one spent shouting like an idiot to another idiot from the opposite side of a field and playing tag with a huge, angry, screaming tree. He spent the following five minutes jogging around like a complete fool without letting the Treeguard get too close, until finally Maxwell's puppet arrived, delivering a grand total of three pinecones and a shovel.

"That's it? Is that all we've got?" He asked in dismay. The puppet shrugged, then pointed to the forest and made a wide gesture that Wilson interpreted as an explosion. Aaah, right, the forest. The latest heatwave had caused a fire, and they had had to regrow the whole forest from scratch. They had kept only three pinecones in case of emergency, which Wilson supposed was exactly the present case. The puppet gave him a thumbs up and scampered away. It was always surprising how much more sociable and cooperative Maxwell's shadows were compared to the original, especially considering their limited expressivity. Wilson actually missed their company when they didn't help with the foraging.

All right, three attempts then. And within a reasonably short time, given that the sun was already descending below the horizon. Of course these things had to happen always at dusk. He quickly dug a tiny hole and got ready to place the pinecone in it as soon as he was within the monster's sight.

The first attempt was a failure. Of course the first attempt had to be a failure, God forbid luck might favor him in time of need, for once. He resolved to let the Treeguard approach him a bit more before trying again.

The second attempt was another miss. Of course the second attempt couldn't just work that easily, that would deny him the thrill of the last chance, the primal dread of being this close to impending, unavoidable doom, something that the forces inhabiting the Constant seemed keen on providing over and over again. Remaining cool and collected despite the tension and the frustration was absolutely imperative in such circumstances.

"Come on, you short-sighted stump!" Wilson raged, stomping his foot and waving around the last remaining pinecone. "Do I have to sow a whole forest to make you happy?"

The Treeguard didn't react in any noticeable way, other than continuing the slowest pursuit in the hystory of vaguely threatening strolls. Wilson scratched his head and cursed. It was almost dark, and he only had one pinecone. He really didn't feel like running around the whole night like a headless chicken hoping to accidentally trip on another pinecone, so he'd have to make the last one count. That meant getting very close, literally in the creature's piney face, and hope for the best.

While the Treeguard approached him, he dug several holes to his left and right, ready to welcome the precious cluster of seeds, then he waited. He waited as the huge pine got close, very close, unadvisably close, definitely way too close. He stood in place when the horrendous creature bellowed from above and swung a giant branch at him. He sprang to the side and dodged it, barely. It crashed to the ground with an unimaginable rumble, but Wilson paid it no mind. The tree roared again, Maxwell was shouting too from somewhere not too far, but Wilson's attention was fully focussed on the closest hole. He crawled to it as the Treeguard slowly lifted his arm, he dropped the pinecone on the ground and swiftly covered it with a small mound of soil.

"See? Done! I've-"

He barely had time to raise his head, and all he could see was a huge flurry of greenery filling his entire field of view. The tremendous impact knocked him out instantly.


End file.
